


Undone

by NightTriumphant



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Bisexual Harry Potter, Blood and Violence, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Communication Failure, Explicit Sexual Content, Gay Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Post-Hogwarts, Pureblood Culture, Rough Sex, Sexual Violence, Top Harry Potter, Underage Sex, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 15:33:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15391899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightTriumphant/pseuds/NightTriumphant
Summary: It's been years since Harry has last seen Draco, and he would have never expected to stumble across him in some suburb outside London. There is a history they share, secrets that no one knows but Draco, and Harry is once again forced to come to terms with the darkness that lingers inside him.





	Undone

    
“Nothing forces us to know  
What we do not want to know  
Except pain” 

\- **Aeschylus, _The Oresteia_**

  

_A suburb outside London, 2004_

 

It was a cool night. The black sky was sprinkled with stars and silence swallowed the echo of the day. The streets were empty, the moon the only source of light, and Harry found himself smiling as he walked through the deserted town. He felt at ease. Whether this was due to the beer he’d been drinking or the comforting feeling of undisturbed solitude he did not know. But nights like these were made for people like him.  
        
The air was pregnant with possibility and heavy with the burden of his soul. It was harder to lie to himself under the blanket of stars, with the moon as witness above him. It was only in nights like this that he allowed the truth.     
  
His sexuality didn’t define him, but it was the secrecy that did, the double life he was leading and had been leading for years. And all of it, from the repression to the lies to moments like these, was all build on two facts: he was bisexual and he liked pain.  
       
The latter was more complicated, the reason for why the former had become a secret as well, for in every experience so far they had been unmistakably correlated, brought together by circumstances that Harry found bizarre even after all those years.          
  
He’d always liked pain. The bruises, the tears, the choking sound that would, at some point, replace the screams.    
     
He liked to see pain, see it in another person’s face, see it build up and crush down, tearing every last bit of self-control apart.     
  
Harry Potter was a sadist.      
  
The never-ending need to inflict pain upon others – that was his darkest secret; hurting others his deepest desire.    
      
He had never hurt anyone, not the way he wanted to, anyway. He had done so in his mind, at night, when he was alone and drunk, free of guilt and disgust. He would masturbate slowly, skilfully, enjoying the moment of perverted pleasure. He would picture another boy at his feet, obedient, submissive, face bruised and swollen. He would imagine the sound of a whip cracking down on the exposed back, the mark it would leave, the blood and purple flesh. The scenario would end with him pulling up the boy, looking into his broken face. And he would kiss him, hard and merciless. He would pick him up, wrap the boy’s legs around his waist and push him against the wall to fuck him senseless, leaving red marks on the wallpaper.  
  
He loved Ginny, loved her with all his heart, but she didn’t know the truth about him. He couldn’t tell her about those fantasies. How would she react if she knew how messed up he truly was?       
  
The war had changed him and Ginny understood. But she would undoubtedly blame it on his PTSD like she did with everything these days. Of course he knew how hard it was for her, how much she missed Fred, their friends.          
  
He never hurt her, had never laid hand on her. Ginny liked it slow and soft and loving, and Harry wanted nothing more than to make her happy. But sometimes he wished he could just grab her, throw her on the bed and whip her with his belt until she cried out in pain. Just once, he wished to be satisfied.    
                        
He had come close once, in his sixth year at Hogwarts, with Draco Malfoy of all people. Of course, their relationship had been terribly unhealthy, but they had been young and inexperienced and were only beginning to explore the dark fantasies that had been forming in their heads for too long.           
    
These past years the memory had haunted him with a sense of paranoia. Malfoy didn’t know everything about him but he knew enough. What if he used that information against him? What if he told someone? He had pictured the article on front page of the Daily Prophet: Harry Potter, the Sadist. Harry Potter Secretly Abused Fellow Student Draco Malfoy For Years. Harry Potter, a Madman After All?                          
  
Yet despite the fear of exposure, Harry liked to remember this time. A feeling of sweet nostalgia and long lost arousal filled him. There had been potential for more, for sex and beatings that were as brutal as they wanted it, and yet healthy and consensual and, most importantly, save. But he had messed it up. As always, he had messed it up.  
        
He had long ago decided that it had been for the best. He couldn’t share this part of himself with Draco Malfoy. Not if it meant so much to him, not if he’d spent so many years trying to accept it and at the same time repress it so it wouldn’t interfere with his relationship with Ginny.      
  
He had never told her about it. Not about the cheating, not about the _who_ and the _what_. Harry would rather face a Hungarian Horntail than tell Ginny that he’d spent weeks viciously beating his childhood enemy and then fucking him senseless in _their_ bed, painting _their_ bed sheets with _Malfoy’s_ blood. To this day, it remained his greatest secret. A secret that Malfoy had discovered, but had not yet revealed in its full, horrible extent.           

_***_

 

_Hogwarts, 1995_

 

The first time they shared a bed they were fifteen.      
          
Harry still didn’t quite understand how it had happened. Malfoy, as usual, had been abusing his position as Prefect, provoking Harry beyond all means. Harry had been angry, so angry that he did not know what to do other than push Malfoy, and push him again. He could not risk hitting him, although he wanted to. So he had pushed him into a wall, and suddenly they were standing so close that, more out of instinct than intelligence, he had kissed him on the mouth. And to his great surprise, Malfoy had kissed him back.  
          
Following from this, Malfoy and Harry shared their first time in an empty classroom. It had felt right, then. There was no arguing about positions, Malfoy had bend over the table without a moment of hesitation. Actually, there hadn’t been any talking, during the act or after. They never spoke about it. Hadn’t the first time it happened, or the second time when they were both drunk on firewhisky and stumbled drunkenly into the Slytherin bedrooms, tearing their clothes off impatiently, not caring about if anybody saw them.       
    
It wasn’t until months later that they did talk about it. It happened one night just after Malfoy had returned to Hogwarts after the Christmas holidays. He had been desperate, more needy than usually. Harry, too, needed the relief and he was eager when it happened, perhaps too eager. He had been rough, not holding back the way he normally did, and Malfoy cried out in pain. The sound was loud, bringing Harry back to reality immediately.    
  
“Oh god”, Harry had said, pulling out quickly and turning Malfoy over with one shaky hand. “Oh god, Malfoy, are you okay? Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry, I –“   
  
“Merlin, Potter. It’s alright. I’m fine.”     
       
“But you – I hurt you.”        
   
“Don’t worry about it.” Malfoy leaned forward to kiss him. Sweat glistered on his forehead. “It was good.”    
  
“But –“     
        
“Shhh.” Malfoy pulled him closer and kissed him. “Don’t ruin it.”   
           
They had been more innocent then, more ashamed of their desires and Harry felt so guilty for losing control of his temper that when he continued it was without passion. But something had not been right with Malfoy. Perhaps after the weeks home, weeks apart from Harry, Malfoy was too aroused to think clearly, to remain the level of self-perseverance that he usually held. He had become greedy with his hands, wild in his movements and something slipped from his mouth, quietly, like a curse under his breath.        
  
“Make me your whore.”        
  
Harry stopped, certain he had misheard him. “What?”       
   
“Don’t make me say it again, Potter”, Malfoy said, his face red with embarrassment. But then, quietly: “Make me your whore.”   
     
Harry still hadn’t been able to move. He felt hot, his skin burning with shame and arousal. It felt unreal, too _good_ to be real.     
           
“For Merlin’s sake, Potter, just do it. I know that you’re holding back. You’re just as twisted as I am and I know it. I _know_ what you want to do to me. So please, by Merlin, _don’t_ be gentle with me _._ ”     

“I don’t want to hurt you”, Harry said.    

“I’ll be fine, Potter”, Malfoy said through clenched teeth.   

“Malfoy, I don’t think...”       

“For fuck’s sake, Potter. I want it to hurt, okay?!”

Harry stared at him, dumbfounded. “What?”         

“I want it to hurt.” Malfoy covered his face with his arm, but Harry saw his ears flushing pink.

“You want me to –?”  
             
“Yes.”  
  
And so Harry did. He grabbed Malfoy by the hips and thrust into him roughly, ignoring the grunts of pain, seeing them only as encouragement.     
  
He came brutally and was soon followed by Malfoy. The pleasure was so intense, the release so liberating it _ached_ in his heart. Harry had never felt this way.       
    
But as his arousal passed shame returned. _There’s something wrong with you,_ the voice in his head whispered. _You shouldn’t like this. You shouldn’t want this._         
  
Harry got up quickly and left the room as fast as he could.

 

***

 

_Hogwarts, 1996_

 

They were both drunk.           
  
Empty bottles of firewhisky lay scattered on the thick, green carpet. Harry was sitting on a velvet sofa, legs dangling over the armrest, a glass in his right hand, clean crystal, golden liquid.         
  
Malfoy was dancing barefoot across the room. His white shirt was un-tucked and his slacks rolled up above his bony ankles. Harry laughed as he watched him, yelling drunken words of encouragement.      
  
It filled his heart with joy to see Malfoy like this. He had just returned to Hogwarts from the Christmas holidays, which he had spent with his parents at Malfoy Manor, and as always when he arrived he was dressed in clean-ironed clothes and wore the bad mood on his face like an accessory – expensive, tailored, meant to impress and intimidate. Harry wanted nothing more than to see this costume, this false demeanour, falter and reveal the truth beneath. He wanted to see him come undone at his hands, his touch.         
  
Harry blushed at the thought of it. Something had changed between them. Perhaps because for the first time while Malfoy was gone Harry had truly missed him.     
  
Harry had been waiting in a hallway, one that was close enough to the Slytherin dormitories that Malfoy could find him, but not close enough to raise suspicion should someone see him there.         
  
Harry brought firewhisky because it was what Malfoy needed after the weeks with his parents, and they opened it in Malfoy’s private bedroom, with the fireplace crackling behind them and the houseelves apparating in and out to bring them leftovers from the Great Hall’s Christmas dinner.  
  
“So, how are you?” Harry had asked when he felt drunk enough to speak. They still didn’t talked much when they were together. It wasn’t a friendship build on words and kindness, but a shared understanding that did not need to be expressed verbally.           
  
“I am well, thank you”, Malfoy answered in mock politeness. “And how are you, Potter?”       
  
Harry scowled. “I mean, how were your holidays?”        
      
“I would rather we didn’t talk about it.”       
  
“Of course.” Harry blushed and he quickly looked away.  
  
But later, when Malfoy’s skin was rosy with drunkenness and his words slurred together as he spoke, he said, “My holidays were shit, alright? Absolute, magnificent shit. My father is a bastard. I’m sure you already know that, but he’s such a fucking bastard.”    
           
Harry laughed. “Oh, I do know that.”           
  
“He’s so stuck-up”, Malfoy continued. “Only ever talks about our reputation, the family name, my failures of not meeting the expectations of my forefathers, the ones that brought greatness to our name. It’s such bullshit. It takes tremendous willpower not to roll my eyes at him every time he speaks, let me tell you. Well, actually, I did roll my eyes at him, once, just before I left. Got smacked across the mouth for it.” He leaned back and closed his eyes, pale hair spreading out over green velvet. “Such a bastard.”            
  
“I’m sorry”, Harry said.       
    
Malfoy groaned. “Please don’t say that.”    
   
Harry took a sip of his whisky. Something stirred inside him. He felt hot, and it wasn’t just because of the alcohol. Something about this _aroused_ him. He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts.          
  
Malfoy got up elegantly and snapped his fingers in sudden impatience. “We need music, I believe”, he said to the houseelf that appeared next to him. “Do play us something, yes? Something dark and powerful – Stravinsky perhaps? Or something a little more upbeat – how about Schumann’s Piano Quintet? Yes, go on.”             
  
The elf bowed. “Yes, Mr Malfoy, Sir.”     
     
Music began to fill the room instantly and Malfoy let out a deep breath. “Ah. Beautiful, is it not?”       
  
“Malfoy, are you okay?” Harry asked.  
       
“Why, of course I am.” Malfoy put his feet into position and raised his arms. “I used to dance ballet, did you know that? Mother wanted me to, and Father allowed it because he hoped it might improve my posture. I was awfully small as a child, and held a habit of slouching, which Father thought terribly inappropriate for a boy of my position. An aristocrat’s son must carry himself according to his place in society, no humility allowed. It is very Platonic in thought, now that I consider it. Not that Father knows that.”         
  
“Malfoy?”       
  
But Malfoy did not hear him. He had begun to dance, swiftly and surprisingly controlled for the amount of drinks he had consumed.  
          
So there they were, with Malfoy dancing until the artistic elegance left him, swept away by exhaustion, and he finished with a dramatic bow.       
    
“That was beautiful”, Harry said, putting the glass between his legs to applaud wildly.  
  
Malfoy bowed again, blonde hair falling into his face. Pale streaks of it stuck to his sweaty forehead. “What can I say? I live to entertain.” He grinned, and there was a touch of madness in his smile. He snapped his fingers again and ordered the elf to turn off the music.  
  
“Would you like a drink?” Harry asked.       
  
Malfoy paused, thinking for a moment before the grin in his face returned. “No, thank you. But there’s something else that I’d like.”           
  
“Yes?”       
        
“Yes.”  
  
“Well, what is it?”   
                 
Malfoy raised his chin. “I want you to hit me.”    
     
Harry choked on his drink. “What?”    
  
“I said I want you to hit me.”            
  
Harry stared at him in disbelief. “But – why?”    
                  
“Because I am curious as to how it would feel. And because I believe that you would enjoy it.”            
   
Now Harry felt offended. “Why would you think that?”    
  
“You hate me, don’t you remember? Or sometimes you do. I know you’ve wanted to hit me before. Here is your chance.”    
  
“But why do you – I don’t –“ Harry’s face was getting hot. The truth was, he wanted to hit Malfoy. He wanted to hit him badly, to explore the darkness that lingered inside him. The thought alone made him squirm in his seat.         
     
Malfoy raised a brow at him. “Come on. If it makes it easier, spending time with my parents makes me feel so terribly dead. I just want to feel something again. I just want to – to _feel._ ” _  
  
_ “I’m sure there are other ways. Ways that are less harmful, less self-destructive.”     
        
“Well, I tried drinking and it didn’t help. Tried dancing and it did not help. Now I want to try this. So get up and hit me.”      
  
“You are crazy”, Harry said but he got up slowly, still thinking that Malfoy might be joking, that this was a way to test him.    
         
“Perhaps I am.”          
  
Harry stood in front of him, hesitantly raising his hand. “Should I slap or punch you?”

“Whatever you prefer.”        

“A slap then.”     
          
“Okay.”         
    
“I don’t want to accidently break your face.”           
  
“You won’t. And even if you do, there’s magic to heal it, you know?”   
     
“Right.”       
      
“Go on.”       
     
Harry raised his hand a little higher and then, before Malfoy could change his mind, brought it down fast and smacked the other boy hard across the face. Malfoy didn’t move for a moment, just stood there with his head turned to the side. A handprint began to form on his cheek, bright red, nearly covering the entire left side of his face.          
  
“And?” Harry asked nervously.                   
  
Malfoy looked at him slowly. A smile tucked at his lips. “Do it again.”   
   
Harry thought about protesting, but stopped himself. He wanted to hit him, after all. It had felt so good to hit him, so liberating. He pushed his shoulders back, flexed his right hand.  
  
“And harder this time. Don’t hold back.”                
  
Before Malfoy could brace himself, Harry hit him again. The slap rang through the room and Malfoy took a step to the side to balance himself. “That was better”, he said, massaging his cheek with one hand.     
   
“Again?” Harry asked, smirking.  
       
“Yes. With your fist this time.”       
    
“Are you sure?”    
        
“Absolutely.”     
          
Harry punched him, right in the jaw.     
          
Malfoy groaned as he stumbled backwards. “Fuck”, he mumbled, hands fingering the bruised muscle. “Where did you learn to hit like that?”  
           
Harry thought of Dudley and his friends, and trying to defend himself but never being able to. He had never punched anyone, had tried to but never succeeded, had always been too small, too weak. How ironic it was, he thought, that of all people he should turn out to be the sadist.     
       
Malfoy looked at him expectantly and Harry shrugged. “Natural talent, I suppose.”       
  
“Beginner’s luck, I would call it.” The provocation in Malfoy’s voice should have made him suspicious, but Harry was still high on the thrill of punching Malfoy and did not notice.   
       
“You truly don’t know what’s good for you, do you?”       
  
“I am a twisted boy. Does that make you angry? Does it make you want to hit me again?”         
  
Harry growled. “And what if it does?”      
     
“Then I would suggest you try your best. Impress me, Potter. Prove to me that –“    
       
Before Malfoy could finish his sentence Harry struck him, harder this time, fuelled by a sudden flare of anger. He did not hold back, but threw his weight into the blow, welcomed the pain that came when his fist connected with Malfoy’s cheek.         
  
Malfoy flew backwards, unable to hold his balance, crushed into a chair and landed on the floor with a loud thud.    
     
Harry’s insides went cold with panic. He had not meant to hit Malfoy this hard, not really, anyway. “Oh God, Malfoy. Oh god, I’m so sorry. I lost my temper, I didn’t – I don’t –“  
  
“Merlin”, Malfoy said. His voice was muffled, his face swelling quickly and adding weight to his tongue. When he looked up Harry saw blood tickling down his lips and dripping onto his pointed chin. “I don’t know whether to let you hit me again or fuck me instead”, he said and grinned, wincing at the pain of his split lip, that madness still clouding his grey eyes.  
  
Harry just stood there, paralysed at the sheer horror of what he had done. It wasn’t the punch itself, but rather the way it had felt. The sensation was so much stronger than what he had felt after fucking Malfoy all those months ago. _Make me your whore._ He remembered those words now, but even more so the shame.     
  
Why did it feel so good? Why did hurting people have to feel so damn _good_?     
    
This wasn’t about Malfoy, it was about him. What was wrong with him?            
  
And worse, this meant something to him. It was so private, so personal, that it meant something to him and suddenly what they were doing wasn’t just mindless pleasure, not just a means to get off, but it was _more._          
  
He looked down at Malfoy, at his bleeding mouth. _I want you to be mine,_ he thought.     
  
Malfoy seemed to notice the longing in Harry’s gaze and he began to approach Harry slowly, crawling towards him like a cat. _I don’t know whether to let you hit me again or fuck me instead_ , he had asked. The question only now entered Harry’s consciousness.             
  
_He wants this too,_ he thought, but the flare of hope was stifled immediately by the self-hatred and shame for now badly he needed to do both these things. And shame for the fact that Malfoy _knew_.  
  
Malfoy bowed down to kiss Harry’s feet, his ankle, his calve. “The latter seems more appropriate, don’t you agree?” he purred, unaware of the conflict in Harry’s mind.        
  
Harry gritted his teeth. “Malfoy, I can’t. I can’t, I – I _hurt_ you.”   
  
“That was the point of it, was it not?” Malfoy said, continuing to kiss his way up Harry’s leg.         
      
How _good_ he was - so submissive, obedient. “Do you need my consent?” Malfoy looked up at him and Harry’s heart skipped a beat. “You have it.”      
    
Malfoy on his knees; his broken face; the plea in his eyes – Harry had to tear his gaze away.  
  
“Do you want me to beg? Because I will, if that’s what it takes.”  
  
Harry felt his trousers tighten and despite himself, he leaned into Malfoy’s touch. The fingers moved up Harry’s leg to his crotch. Harry pushed his hand into the pale hair and pulled the other boy closer. Malfoy kissed him, kissed him where he longed to be touched, where he was aching with need. Harry ran his fingers along Malfoy’s jaw and pushed his chin up.         
      
He wanted to slap him, to beat him, to _fuck_ him. And he wanted to kiss him, too. But he couldn’t. It was Malfoy, after all. Malfoy, who had just discovered the darkness inside him, his greatest secret and was about to become a part of it.       
  
Malfoy took Harry’s hand and kissed the raw skin of his knuckles. “What do you want me to do, Potter?” he asked, rising to his feet. Harry could feel his hot breath on his skin, and the smell of blood tickling his nose.      
  
Harry had to close his eyes. He needed to focus, needed to resist the temptation of Malfoy’s beautiful, broken face, so close to his own, his lips only inches away.    
     
“Do you want me to touch you _there_?” He stroked Harry’s erection through his trousers. “Or shall I just turn around, bend over –“ He smirked. “ – and let you _feast_ on me.”  
  
Harry groaned.            
  
“What else is it that you like? What is Ginny not giving you? Apart from a cock.”          
  
“It’s not that”, he mumbled.       
         
“Of course not. It’s this, isn’t it?” Malfoy gestured to the bruises in his face and when Harry looked away he laughed. “Don’t be so pathetic. It’s fine, really. So what else is there that I don’t know about you? What do you _like_?”    
       
Harry didn’t answer him.       
  
„Hmm, let’s see. Would you like it if I called you _Sir_?”       
  
Harry’s cock twitched.           
  
“Oh you would, wouldn’t you? What if I was a naughty student and you were the teacher that had to discipline me?”     
        
Another twitch.  
          
“I never knew you were that kinky, Potter. I’m thrilled.”   
  
“Shut the fuck up”, Harry hissed.     
  
“And I never knew you had a mouth that dirty.” He clicked his tongue.    
  
“I said shut up”, Harry said.             
   
Malfoy raised a brow but stayed quiet. He continued running one hand up and down Harry’s cock, while the other began unbuttoning his own shirt and trousers.    
  
“What do you want me to do?” Malfoy asked again and this time Harry looked at him, considering. With his right hand, he stroked Malfoy’s face, admiring the elegant features with his touch. He stopped at his mouth. Such a beautiful, wicked mouth. His thumb traced across the bottom lip.     
  
“I want you on your knees”, Harry said quietly.     
  
Malfoy cocked his head to one side, mischief dancing in his grey eyes. Slowly, he went down to his knees. “What now?”     
   
Harry smiled. “Show me what this pretty mouth of yours can do.”       
      
Something lit up in Malfoy’s eyes and, eagerly, he did as he was told.

 

***

 

The physical violence became part of their regular routine. They would meet for the needed hour of relief, Harry would slap Malfoy, perhaps choke him for a while, play with whatever fantasies he had that did not exceed the established standard; (pain, yes, but nothing visible or too violent, nothing that could reveal what had happened once they parted). Then they would fuck and Malfoy would moan and moan and tell him of how bad he was, how badly he needed Harry to hurt and punish him, and Harry would tell him that yes, that was exactly what he deserved.  
  
Yet, they were both unsatisfied. In the peak moments of perverse pleasure, Harry would still have to restrain himself and it took all the self-control he had, leaving him more exhausted than the wildest sex ever had. Malfoy was growing impatient. Perhaps he was getting bored, Harry wasn’t quite sure. But he was continuously getting ruder, more arrogant. He would snap at Harry, provoke him until Harry slapped him, not knowing what else to do because it seemed to be the only thing that satisfied Malfoy.           
  
Their relationship had been doomed from the start, Harry thought looking back on it later. They had never been open and honest with one another. The only honesty they shared was in moments of sharing their bed; yet this honesty was one founded on nights of drunkenness and alcohol-inflicted courage, not a desire to opens one’s heart to the other and build a level of trust.   
  
One time in bed, when they had both had too much to drink, Malfoy said, suddenly, “Stop that.”      
  
Harry stopped. “What?”       
  
“Not that. Stop this – this kindness. You are always so terribly kind to me.”   
      
"Kind? I slapped you.”    
        
“Yes, but you apologised for it because I fell and you didn’t mean to do that. And now you feel guilty and ashamed and fuck me like I’m made of glass.”  
  
“That is untrue.”      
     
“It is not.”       
  
Harry sighed. “So what do you want me to do if slapping you isn’t enough?”    
                
“Don’t be kind to me. Not with your hands or your words. Insult me, if you must. Make it personal.”   
  
“Are you sure?”          
  
"Yes, Potter.”  
  
Harry considered the possibilities. _Insult me._ How he longed to do that. Verbal hurt seemed almost more violent than physical hurt. There was so much damage one could do with some cleverly placed words.       
  
Insulting Malfoy would not be hard. They had both practised the art of hurting one another through language for years. But this was different, more delicate. It was about humiliation and inflicting emotional pain, while he had yet to be careful to not cross the line – where exactly this line was Harry did not know, for of course the whereabouts of this metaphorical border between eroticised rhetoric and verbal abuse had never been revealed, or even established.      
  
Harry, later, was humiliated at how naïve he had been, how foolish to think that Malfoy – Malfoy, of all people! – could be sensible enough to know where his own limits were. But back then, he had been too young to care, to even think about it. Malfoy asked him to insult him and Harry obliged because that’s how this worked.  
       
The words came easily. He didn’t have to think, didn’t care to do so. “You are an arrogant, spoiled little brat”, Harry said carefully, while he reached for Malfoy and slowly began to stroke him. Malfoy moaned encouragingly. “You need to be dominated so badly. Why, I wonder? Is it because no one ever made you submit or obey? Neither at home nor at school. Or is it simply because you are a pathetic git, spoiled rotten by a rich daddy and an over-caring mother, and being fucked senseless is only another attempt to feel alive again?”  
  
He was masturbating Malfoy faster now, looking him straight in the eye as he spoke. “Where did you get the taste for this? Being slapped and fucked? Who introduced you to the twisted eroticism of pain and pleasure? Who was the first one to fuck you? One of your friends? Crabbe or Goyle? Or Snape perhaps? That sounds like the sort of perverse thing you would do. Seducing your own godfather.”       
  
“No one”, Malfoy groaned, eyes half-closed. “No one has ever –“     
         
Harry grabbed him more tightly. “No one? Hm, I don’t believe that. You know what I think? I think that you have always whored yourself out for affection. I think that you love getting fucked only because it makes you feel loved.”      
  
Harry was beginning to find pleasure in talking and he could not stop. The words poured out of him, fast and bitter on his tongue. “Your father put this idea into your head, did he not? He is the one you made you believe that you were worthless. That you had to prove yourself.” Malfoy let out a strangled sound but Harry barely heard him. _Make it personal,_ Malfoy had said.  
            
“How often”, he continued, “did you provoke a beating just so he would pay attention to you? How often did you act the naughty child hoping your father would see you? Finally see you?”          
            
Malfoy tensed. “Shut up”, he said.   
  
“Oh?” Harry said with a raised eyebrow. “Hitting a mark, am I? Is that why you mistake punishment for love? You are just a child, Malfoy, still waiting for daddy’s approval.”   
                     
Malfoy pushed Harry off him and stood up. “I said shut up!” He glared down at him, eyes glassy. “I said shut up”, he repeated, his voice breaking slightly and carrying the hurt that was written all over his pale face.     
       
“What?” Harry’s face turned red, embarrassed by the fact that he had once again lost control of his temper. “You said to insult you.”     
       
Malfoy stumbled through the room collecting his clothes and got dressed quickly. “You are such an arse, Potter. Such a fucking arsehole.”   
  
“But – was it because I talked about your father? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean –“      
  
“Just shut your mouth, will you? I can’t do this anymore. You are so arrogant, always so full of yourself.”  
                
“What –?”       
  
But before Harry could reply Malfoy had stormed off, leaving him dumbfounded and burning with shame.    

 

***

 

_A suburb outside London, 2004_

 

Lost in thought, Harry almost didn’t see the person leaning against the house wall. Legs crossed, dressed in a long coat, hair glowing silver in the moonlight. Draco Malfoy. Harry wasn’t sure whether to laugh at the absurdity of the situation or to apperate far, far away to avoid the inevitable confrontation with his childhood enemy and teenage lover.    
       
“Well, if it isn’t the famous Potter”, said Malfoy, smirking. “What an honour.”  
  
Harry considered walking past him, but Malfoy pushed himself off the wall and stepped in his way.    
  
“What do you want, Malfoy?”          
  
“What do I want?” Malfoy repeated. He cocked his head to one side. “Well, where do I start?”  
            
The arrogance in his voice made Harry want to punch him. “Why are you here?”      
    
_This_ , he thought, _is the moment he’ll start blackmailing me._ He had been excepting it for years. Malfoy was too clever, too cunning to let an opportunity like this pass. The Slytherin had always loved making his life miserable.          
  
“I’m here because of you, obviously.” Harry pushed Malfoy out of the way. “What other reason could there be to come to a bar in London, other than the Great Potter, the Hero, the Chosen One? I’m certain that is the only reason people go to bars these days, Potter. It’s you. It’s all about you.” Each word was coated in sweet sarcasm.  
  
“Shut your mouth.”   
   
“Hmm, so demanding”, Malfoy purred. “Makes me want to go down on my knees and really show you how grateful I am for your heroic deeds.”  
  
Harry took a deep breath to stifle his anger.  
            
“You’re pathetic, you know that?” Malfoy continued absently. “Always so sure of yourself, so fucking arrogant –”  
  
“Watch your mouth.” Oh, his blood was boiling, rage building up slowly but surely.

“Are my words offending you? I’m terribly sorry, I truly am. But you see, I’m only answering your question. Do not blame me for your sensitivity.”  
    
“How are you answering my question, exactly? I don’t remember asking for insults.”  
  
“You really are too sensitive.” Malfoy walked around him like a predator circling its prey and Harry felt like breaking his damn skull.     
       
“Fuck you, Malfoy.”

“Language, Potter”, Malfoy said. “So, why am I here?” Pause. “I enjoy a good beer. And this pub does have the best beer in London.”   
       
“We’re not even _in_ London.”  
             
“Are you accusing me of lying, Potter?”    
     
“ _Why_ are you here? Is it just to torture me or do you actually have a reason?”   
     
“I’m a Slytherin, Potter, I always have a reason.”    
  
“You’re avoiding my question.”       
   
Malfoy smirked.       

Harry wanted to hurt him, then, and not in a good way.      
  
“Am I making you angry, Potter? You’re shaking.”    
           
Malfoy was right, he _was_ shaking.  

“You should let off a little steam. Has Ginny grown tired of you? Does she no longer spread her pretty legs for you?”  
          
“Shut your damn mouth, Malfoy”, Harry said through gritted teeth.         
  
“Shut it for me, _Potter._ ”   

Harry punched him.    
  
The impact sent Malfoy stumbling, but he quickly regained his posture. “You hit like my father”, he said in a tone that sounded almost bored. “Always have.”     
       
“Is that a compliment?” said Harry in an attempt to calm himself.     
          
“Not at all. My father was always so very careful not to do serious harm to his delicate heir. His beatings always left me wanting... _more_.”             
  
That arrogance, that magnificent boredom – he had to get him to shut up or he’d lose his mind. “I shall try harder, then. Can’t have you thinking I weren’t able to satisfy you.”  
  
“How very considerate.” Malfoy’s voice was cut off by sharp slap across his face that threw him to the side. His nose was bleeding when he straightened, but he just grinned. “Do it again”, he challenged.      

And Harry did.       
      
He punched him repeatedly, hit his face with all strength, fuelled by all the years he had wanted to do this, all the times he had forced himself to hold back, to control that darkness inside him. He felt bones break beneath his knuckles, the sound a symphony of blood and vengeance. He wanted to ruin those delicate features, to bruise the flawless skin. For a moment he felt no remorse, not even the slightest sting of guilt; maybe because Malfoy deserved it. Or because he kept grinning, even though his face was covered in blood.  
  
Harry couldn’t breathe. But oh it felt good. Felt good to hurt him, beat him into submission like he’d always wanted. Harry felt high on power, adrenaline pulsing through his veins.             
  
But then he stopped, suddenly, and the world went silent.         
      
Malfoy was lying on the ground, panting, shaking.            
    
What had he done?  
     
Malfoy looked up at him and spit out a tooth. His face was covered in blood, his porcelain skin painted red. Pain was all too visible in his eyes, but the grey was clouded with something else, an emotion Harry couldn’t quite place.     
        
“Feel better?” Malfoy asked, and then, with a look at Harry’s crotch he added: “It appears so.” His voice was strained, his tongue heavy in his rapidly swelling mouth. He could barely open his left eye when he looked up at the midnight sky, but nevertheless he forced his lips into a smile even as it made him wince in pain. “Merlin, this is even better than I imagined.”  
  
Harry didn’t hear him. His heart was thundering in his chest, brutally, like something inside him tried to break free.    
  
_What had he done?_     
   
“Malfoy”, he said softly.       
  
Malfoy grinned, teeth dripping with blood. “That was amazing”, he said.      
         
“I almost killed you. Malfoy, I’m – I’m so sorry.”  
  
“Oh _please_ , listen to yourself, Potter”, Malfoy said. “You’re such a hypocrite. You _liked_ it.”    
  
“I did not.”      
  
“Of course you did. You don’t have to pretend you didn’t.”  
          
“But –”   
           
“I don’t mind. I liked it, too. I mean, fuck!” He threw his head back and let out a husky laugh. “This so much better than what we did in school. I’ve never felt more alive. I’ve never been more _aroused._ ”    
        
“What?”  
  
Malfoy pushed himself up on his elbows and looked at Harry beneath a strand of pale hair. “Fuck me, Potter. Please, fuck me.”

Harry felt his trousers tighten and before he knew what was happening, his mouth was on Malfoy’s, kissing him with brutal, unrestrained longing. His tongue parted blood-stained lips, indulged the other in a dance of desire.    
      
Malfoy’s hands were on his back, fingers digging into flesh, but Harry grabbed him by the wrists and pinned him to the ground. Malfoy groaned at the brusque handling. He spread his legs and Harry lowered his hips until he felt the pulsing of Malfoy’s manhood on his own.  
  
Another shot of arousal thundered through his body. Harry tore the clothes off Malfoy’s body. His coat, his jacket. He ripped his shirt apart, attacking the pale, freshly bruised skin with his mouth and teeth, bruising it once again, but with flecks of tendresse.  
  
With eager fingers, he opened Malfoy’s belt, as he began biting and licking his perked nipples. Leather cracked though the air and Malfoy moaned solely at the sound.    
   
Adrenaline filled his blood, ignited his soul. He wanted to fuck, to lose himself in Malfoy, in his moans and cries of lust. He wanted to worship is body, marvel at the glory of pleasure and pain becoming one. He wanted to do what he had wanted to do for all his life: to hurt and to delight. To punch and to fuck. He wanted to devour Malfoy and all his perverse fantasies, to explore to possibilities of the primitive desire they shared.  
   
Harry took him right there on the open street.  
        
He prepared him with tongue and fingers and then thrust into him, hard and merciless and Malfoy cried out in pleasure, cried out in pain. He begged for more and Harry gave it to him. He gave him all he had.      
          
And when relief came over him and he groaned with a satisfaction he had not felt before, it was as though he had tasted pleasure for the first time. He tipped his head back and laughed into the star-flecked sky. For this was salvation. This was freedom in all its absolute liberation. And it had been brought about by Draco Malfoy.     

 

***

 

_London, 2004_

 

The sex was magnificent. The second time was even better than the first, and the third time, at home in the bed that Harry usually shared with Ginny, was nothing short of mind-blowing.        

“No, leave it”, Draco had said, when Harry attempted to heal his bruises after they’d arrived at the apartment.           
  
“But you’re hurting.”         
      
“I know. That’s why”, said Draco.   
  
Harry could not help but smile. This was everything he’d ever wanted. Everything he had dreamt of these past years, ever since the first time he had punched Draco in the face and admitted to himself that this might be more than some sick fantasy.  
      
Harry swore to himself, the moment that he came back to his senses on the street, that it could never happen like this again. If they were to continue, they had to do it properly. They needed rules, boundaries and a safe word. He needed to know what Draco liked and what he didn’t like. He needed to know everything. Only then it could be fully consensual, fully safe. What had happened on the street hadn’t been safe, it hadn’t been right.       
             
Not without a sting of pain, Harry remembered what had happened last time, when he had insulted Draco and they had, after years of sharing a bed, gone back to being school rivals. Just like that. They never spoke about again.     
  
Something had lingered though, or so Harry thought, when Draco had saved his life and he had saved Draco’s. But then again, there was a difference between caring for someone and not wanting to see them brutally murdered, or so Harry believed.      
     
But eight years ago, when Draco had stormed out of the room with tears in his eyes, it had been because of Harry and it had been because they had not get known their own limits.  
  
Harry looked down at Draco, who was dousing in his arms. His pale hair was spread out over bruised cheekbones, his lips parted and swollen. Did Draco know his limits now? Had he been able to explore his sexuality, to learn about his needs and desires? Had anyone shown him the way it was done in a safe and consensual setting? Had he spoken to anyone about it?    
         
Harry ran a hand through his messy black hair. “Does anyone know?” he asked.       
                    
Draco raised his head to look at him. “About me being a masochist?”    
         
“Yeah.”       
       
“Yes. I mean, a few people do.”        
  
“Who?”           
  
“The people I meet at fetish clubs, for one, who slap me, spank me, whip me and then never talk to me again.”    
         
“And your friends?”   
  
“Pansy knows. Blaise does, too.”      
  
“And what do they think?”    
  
“They don’t care. As long as I’m safe and content what I do in bed does not concern them. I suppose Granger and the Weasel don’t know about this – sadism of yours?”  
    
“No. No, they don’t.”    
          
“And the Weasel girl?”       

“No one knows.”   
       
Draco raised a brow. “But you do have sex, don’t you?”    
  
“Of course we do.”    
   
“And you’ve never – I don’t know – smacked her arse? Thrown her over your knee to spank her? Tied her to a bed and used her solely to your satisfaction?”  
  
Just hearing Draco talk about it made him ache with longing. “No. She’s not into that stuff.”  
                  
“Ah, a vanilla girl. Wouldn’t have pictured her as one, if I’m honest.”     

Harry shrugged. “It’s fine, though. I love her.”         
  
“Of course you do. You really must love her if you’re willing to give up this part of yourself, give up this –“ He brushed a finger across Harry’s bruised knuckles.  
        
“I suppose that’s true.”       
    
Draco kissed his chest, his chin, his lips. Then he said, quietly, “I used to believe that something was wrong with me, very, very wrong. That my mind was rotten, that I was weak. Now I understand that it takes a great amount of strength to endure such severe pain.”      
  
“It does”, Harry said.           
                
“Do you remember how it started?”  
  
Harry shook his head. “Not really. First it was about me wanting to fight back for once, to defend myself, and I suppose during puberty it just mixed with my growing sexuality. I think repressing this desire made it more intense somehow. Suddenly there was some strange, burning need to hurt others and it terrified me. I hated myself for it, until I allowed myself to consider it a little and realised that it wasn’t to hurt others for simply _my_ pleasure, but for their pleasure, too.”   
               
“Repression is a dangerous thing.”    
  
“And you? Do you remember when you began to – to like this?”       
         
“Well”, Draco said, picking at the blanket distractedly, “it started with me developing a certain fascination with my father’s punishments. That is, the punishments by themselves were awful, quite painful, and terrifying. But other elements – the anticipation of the blows, the physical sensation of pain, the way my skin would bruise and my body heal itself – this part of the punishment would give me tremendous pleasure. Not while the discipline was being carried out, but rather afterwards, when I was left to contemplate it in the safety and privacy of my room. This was, in a way, the awakening of my sexuality.”       
  
“But are you –?” Harry trailed off.    
  
“What?”        

“I don’t know. Gay? I mean, it’s not about sex, so...”     
      
“I never cared much for sex when I was younger and experimenting. With you”, he added after a moment of hesitation, “sex was more the basis for what I hoped would come of it. Not that I didn’t enjoy it, but the motivation behind was something else. But now that I can actually get what I want, pain is the priority, but that doesn’t mean I don’t also love the sex. As you should know.”    
  
A memory appeared in Harry’s mind, of grey eyes half-closed in pleasure, blond hair soaked in sweat, pale skin sticky with arousal. He grinned. “Oh, I do know.”       
   
“So I identify as gay”, Draco continued, “even though I am not exclusively attracted to men. But the thought of being physically hurt by a woman does not arouse me. I cannot tell you whether this is simply my sexuality, or whether there is a more sexist connotation to my preferences. That is, that they are the result of my conservative upbringing, that my pride would suffer at the idea of submitting to what is traditionally known as the inferior sex.”             
  
“’The inferior sex’”, Harry said with a chuckle. “Better not let Ginny or Hermione hear that, I’m sure they’d be delighted to change your way of thinking.“  
       
“Granger has attempted that before, as you may remember.”    
       
“You mean when she slapped you in our third year? Yeah, I remember that. It was glorious.”  

“Glorious? It was outrageous!” Draco exclaimed, pretending to be offended.   
       
Harry laughed.            
  
“But in all seriousness”, Draco continued, pausing for a moment. “My father and my pureblood education have made quite an impression on me during those years before I went to Hogwarts. I still struggle to see which thoughts are my own and which aren’t. Of course, in Muggle psychology personality is said to be entirely made up of outside influence, which does not make this easier. I have to rationalise every impulse in order to control the attitudes of racism and misogyny that I have acquired during my childhood.”     
    
“But you’re trying. And that’s good.”   
         
“There’s just so much that I have to make up for. It’s easier now that Father is in Azkaban and no longer watches my every step.” Draco did not look at him, but Harry could tell how difficult it was for Draco to talk about his father. And he knew how difficult it would be for him to talk about the way they had parted eight years ago. He almost didn’t want to bring it up.       
     
“I think we should talk about what happened the last time we were together. In Hogwarts, that is, when we were sixteen”, Harry said after a pause.     
          
"Why?”           
  
“Because I hurt you, and not in the way that we like.”   
       
“I was more sensitive then. And it is my fault. I asked you to say those things to me.”  “You asked me to insult you, but I went too far. I don’t want that to happen again.”  
  
Draco sighed. “As you wish. Let me start, then.” He sat up and without looking at Harry began to talk. “What I said about Pansy and Blaise knowing about my preferences is not entirely true. They know that I’m a masochist, they know that I enjoy getting beaten up by other men. But that’s about it. Even without giving them details they worry about me. They think, although they don’t admit it, that this is a way of coping with my childhood, with my father’s, well, I suppose one could call it abuse.”  
  
He went quiet for a moment, but before Harry could say something he continued. “I don’t know how much you know about the pureblood tradition, or the way that children of pureblood families are raised, but it is a very conservative upbringing, very old-fashioned by modern Muggle-standards. Now, Pansy and Blaise never experienced the true severity of this. Blaise’s mother was always to busy with her newest lover or husband, and spent most of her time away from home, leaving the houseelves in charge of her son. As for Pansy, to discipline her for misbehaviour would mean for her parents to acknowledge her existence, and so she too was free to do as she pleased. No authority, no consequences as long as she did not bring shame over her name, which, surprisingly, she did not. I think they both spent too much time with me for that.  
     
“But my father was not like that. My parents and I would dine together, we would sit in the library together while I studied and my parents read. Father worked a lot, but he was still there, as a stern presence with high expectations and a short temper. For that reason I used to think that I was somehow better than Pansy and Blaise, at least in terms of my position in my family. I never envied them for their freedom, no, I looked down on them because my father _cared_ about me, cared enough to discipline me when necessary.

"Of course, I was too proud to see that the only time Father paid attention to me was precisely when he thought it necessary to punish me – for not living up to my name, for being bested by Granger, for losing a Quidditch match. So you were right when you said that I mistake punishment for love. You were absolutely right, but I never realised it until you said it. And in that moment it terrified me, not because of what that meant for my relationship with my father, but for my relationship with you. I already knew that my father did not care about me, but I never thought the same could ever apply to someone I considered my friend. Not after everything.”       
  
He fell into silence again. Harry felt such deep shame for what he had done to Draco all those years ago that he could barely look at him.     
  
“I am so sorry”, was all he could say.           
  
“There is no need for that. I’m too sensitive, have always been.” 

“That is not true.”      
  
“Oh? I think it is. Did you never wonder why I’m like this?”   
        
 “Like what?”   
  
“Rude, snobbish, arrogant, pretentious, selfish – The list could go on and on. It’s because I’m too soft for the world I was born in. The only way not to lose oneself is to become someone else entirely. To become what is the reason for my anxieties, my pain. That’s why I need this sex, as messed up as it may be. It’s the only time I can truly be myself and not suffer the consequences for it.”     
  
“That’s what I love about this.” Harry looked down at Draco’s bruised face, as his knuckles resting on the coloured flesh, gentle where hours ago they had been hard and brutal. “It’s such a liberating sensation to be yourself, to allow a huge part of yourself to just break out in violent force, no holding back. Suddenly, you no longer know what you are. It’s just impulses, animalistic existence.”     
              
“Yes! Oh, yes!” Draco exclaimed agitated, his eyes wild and dreamy. “That’s what this is to me. The loss of being, of knowing who I am, what I’m supposed to be. Pain to me is what makes this all feel real. It’s what lets me experience life without thinking, without worrying and manipulating and rationalising.”  
             
“Being yourself in full excess means losing all sense of this self.”   
  
“Because one exists only through the eyes of others. But when you experience yourself at your most vulnerable, you start to see the naked truth that lies hidden behind this mask that you’ve come to think is your true self. But pure being is only there in a moment of a complete loss of control.”     
                 
"Pain is the most powerful sensation.”      
     
“Because in a moment of genuine pain”, Draco said, continuing his thought excitedly, “there is no accepting it, no emotions that one can manipulate. There is nothing but pain. Think about it. People would rather die than experience physical pain. Torture is more terrifying than eternal death. Pain, or the fear of pain, is what controls people. Human progress is evident for this. We grow because we want to overcome that which brings discomfort and suffering, for suffering is what makes us truly human, mortal, and there’s nothing scarier than that. But experiencing it is so – it’s knowledge of something else, something unknown, indefinable. It’s glorious.”    
         
“I love hearing to talk about it”, Harry blurted out. He felt the sudden urge to kiss Draco. His eyes flicked down, gaze brushing over his lips.       
     
“Yes?”  
             
“Yes”, Harry murmured, as he lowered his mouth and met Draco halfway, kissing him softly. “I want you to always feel that way with me.”  

“What way?” Draco responded, voice muffled by Harry’s lips.     
  
“So intensely passionate.”     
  
Draco only deepened the kiss, his tongue slowly entering Harry’s mouth, tasting him greedily. Harry grabbed him by the hips and Draco let him lead him onto his lap, lowering himself onto Harry’s erect manhood. “Hmm”, he purred and Harry dug his nails into Draco’s flesh, desire taking over, passion burning deep inside him.         
  
Draco began rolling his hips, moving slowly and deliberately. Moans escaped his lips, driving Harry crazy. He had to restrain himself from throwing the boy on his back, tearing off his clothes and entering him dry, fucking him into the realm of pain and pleasure.                   
   
Malfoy bit down on Harry’s lower lip, his hands gliding down his body, into his boxers. He groaned when he felt the pulsing in his palm and began rubbing Harry’s cock with overwhelming expertise. Harry threw his head back, cursing under his breath.      
  
Draco kissed him on the lips one last time before he began kissing his way down.

“Wait”, Harry said. “Before we continue – we need to establish a safe word.”      
  
“No we don’t, Potter”, Draco gave back, pulling Harry’s underwear down further. He looked Harry in the eyes and licked his lips, hands still moving up and down his manhood. “I can take it, don’t worry”, he said and bent down to kiss the wet tip of his erection.     
   
“I won’t do it, then.”              
  
Harry wanted to sit up, but Draco said, “Fine.” He rolled his eyes. “My safe word is Firebolt. Can I suck you now?”  
           
Harry frowned. “No. I think you have forgotten your place. Get up.”     

Draco glared at him. The muscles in his jaw working, he visibly thought about refusing. Perhaps it was out of childish defiance or pride, perhaps he wished to provoke a beating. The thought made Harry’s cock twitch. He almost wanted him to disobey.          
  
“Whatever you say, Sir”, Draco said finally and got up from the bed.        
  
_Sir._ Harry almost smiled at the word, but he stayed in his role, raising his chin and keeping his eyes hard on Draco.  

Draco straightened. Harry’s gaze wandered across his slender body, the fine lines of bones and muscle, the contrast of purple bruises to pale flesh. Nothing but a pair of black underwear covered him. Harry leaned back, crossing his legs.  
           
“What now?” Draco asked impatiently.        
  
_Yes, what now?_ There were so many possibilities, so many things Harry wanted to do. But first, he had to remove the old bruises. He reached for his wand, which was lying on the nightstand and cast a quick spell. The bruises disappeared, making Malfoy once more pale, pure, untouched.     
    
“Hey!” Draco said but Harry silenced him with a movement of his hand.          
     
“I cannot hit you when your body is already carrying the marks of a past trashing. It would be cruel. I don’t want to harm you.”      
  
“Fine.”        
       
Harry wondered if this attitude was meant to provoke him, if Draco was simply playing the game, or if it was genuine annoyance. With a sigh Harry pushed himself up and stood before Draco. The boy looked up at him. Harry slapped him.        
  
Draco gave a small sound of surprise, hand reaching for his cheek. For a split second, the ghost of a smile hushed across his face, before it disappeared again and the expression of mild arrogance and boredom returned.     
  
“Tell me your safe word again, Draco”, Harry snarled. When Draco didn’t reply immediately he reached out, so quickly Draco flinched, and grabbed the boy’s face roughly. “Don’t make me repeat myself. What is your safe word?”          
  
“It’s Firebolt.”            
  
Harry raised an eyebrow.     

“Sir”, Draco added. “My safe word is Firebolt, _Sir_. Now hit me again, I’m barely hurting.”        
  
“I doubt that.”    
          
“Come on. Hit me, punch me, whip me. Do whatever you want to me.”   
  
“Are you telling me what to do?”      
  
“No, Sir. Never.”        
  
Harry smiled and bent down to kiss him on the lips. “I thought so. Such audacity would demand the harshest of punishments.”      
    
“Then perhaps I was telling you what to do.”     
       
Harry gave a low, husky laugh. “You twisted, little boy.” And he kissed Draco so hard he tasted blood.         
                
He knew he had to punish Draco, knew to had to partake in this game they were playing. His fingers brushed over Draco’s back, over bone, muscle and smooth skin, and ideas rushed through his mind, images of what he could do.    
          
He planned it all out in his head – how he would make Draco bend over the bed and get the belt, how he would test it by cracking it through the air, making Draco flinch at the sound. He pictured how he would bring it down hard over the boy’s back and behind, how red welts would appear on the pale skin. Draco would arch his back and cry out, he would bury his face in the mattress to stifle the sounds of pain and hide the tears burning in his eyes.  
  
Harry would whip Draco until he was limp on the bed, shoulders shaking slightly with the sobs. He would drop the belt and stroke Draco’s back, kiss his bruised flesh and rub it until the boy had calmed down. That he’d kiss him on the lips, careful at first, then with more passion. He’d wrap his arms around Draco, throw him on the bed. Draco would wince at the impact, but the pain would turn into pleasure. Desire would take over.        
  
Harry saw himself as he entered Draco, heard himself mumble words in a husky tone, telling Draco of what a naughty boy he was, what other punishments he’d inflict on him. He saw them fuck, saw pleasure building up and crash down, saw his own darkness taking over once more, slapping Draco’s face, his arse.           
               
Until all sanity left them and it was just animalistic existence, the primitive need for bodily satisfaction. He’d sent them both into oblivion. He’d destroy every bit of self-control they had left.         
  
He saw it then, in his head, and he smiled as he kissed Draco.        
  
“Turn around”, he whispered and Draco’s face lit up.          

“As you wish”, Draco said and obeyed without a second thought.

 

***

 

Dominance, Harry knew, did not need to be proven by force, violence was not merely about pain. It was about control. And when inflicted the right way, control could be sexy.    
           
Harry wanted this to be about more than pain. He did not want Draco to experience what he had before in fetish clubs, with people who did not care about him.  
      
Draco needed to be dominated because he needed a break from thinking about everything he did, about what thought was his father’s and what wasn’t. He needed to be hurt because pain had been a way to make him feel alive. He had wanted this because it was the only thing keeping him from losing his mind, the only thing he knew how to do when it came to accepting who he was.        
  
Harry wanted Draco to feel loved, he wanted him to feel that this was more than just erotic fantasies coming to life or reaching sexual satisfaction.  
             
There was so much he wanted to say to Draco, but he didn’t dare. He wasn’t certain yet about what this truly was, what it could be. This was unknown territory. It had to be uncovered carefully, delicately.    
  
Harry came undone at the first moan, lost himself in lust and desire as the sounds grew louder, more desperate. Being itself unravelled and left him naked and vulnerable. There he was, laid out bare. All his darkness revealed.

Harry had never cared more about anything in his life, had never felt so deeply for anyone. This was different because he and Draco were one, they shared this strange experience of pure existence and it formed a bound that was indestructible. No shame, no repression. Complete understanding in the twisted desire they shared.    
   
He pushed Draco down into the bed and devoured him. He worshipped his beautiful body with his mouth, his tongue and teeth. He gave Draco what he deserved – unrestrained passion, pure pleasure and pain. He slapped and smacked and bruised his perfect pale skin, and then he kissed and licked and caressed him until Draco himself no longer knew what to feel.          
     
When release overcame him, Draco was so hoarse from moaning that his voice cracked in a last performance of absolute vulnerability and Harry kissed and kissed his soft lips until he had recovered and lay limp in his arms, content and exhausted.  
  
“This”, Draco whispered, halfway into the realm of dreams, “this Is everything I wanted.”    
  
He put his arms around Harry, something that they had never done before. Harry half expected him to get up, dress and leave, but Draco merely closed his eyes, face snuggled against Harry’s bare chest.    
  
He felt Draco’s breath warm and soft on his naked skin, felt his heartbeat, still a bit too fast, his body losing all tension. Had Draco ever been this relaxed around him? Harry didn’t think so.  
  
“Draco”, he said, really tasting his name for the first time.         
                              
“Yes?”    

Harry brushed a finger over Draco’s cheek, making him smile. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to do. Draco looked up at him, but failed to keep his eyes open for long, exhaustion heavy on his fine features. “Go to sleep”, Harry said. “We’ll talk in the morning.”         

“Will you stay here?”       
        
“Of course. Where else would I go?”         
      
Draco laughed softly. “Right. This is your house. Your bed.” 

“I’ll make you breakfast in the morning”, Harry whispered into Draco’s pale hair and kissed him on the forehead.       
  
“I can’t wait.”      
                     
Harry snuggled into him and when he bent down to kiss Draco again, he was already asleep.      
          


End file.
